


Nowhere Boy

by lovedawn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Artist Dean Thomas, Bisexual Dean Thomas, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay Seamus Finnigan, Gryffindor, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Not Canon Compliant, POV Dean Thomas, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:41:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29152926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovedawn/pseuds/lovedawn
Summary: Dean Thomas is a character that was meant to have a far larger role in the Harry Potter franchise, but didn’t.This book is me retelling the story, from his point of view, making small changes here and there, and telling the story of Dean Thomas, the boy who went unnoticed, from muggle boy at eleven, to a version of himself he was proud of.Nowhere Boy — seven years at Hogwarts. 1991 - 1998.(Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan romance! Slow burn, like seriously years and years, and a year or so of pining. Angst, fluff, and eventual romance. Mostly canon-compliant, but of course, showing Dean’s perspective, so I made tweaks.)(I don’t support J.K Rowling’s views, as a quick disclaimer. In no way do I support a transphobic author, but this IS fanfiction. Not canon (unfortunately).)
Relationships: Dean Thomas & Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Summer, 1991

**Author's Note:**

> The plot of Dean’s family and home life is actually from J.K Rowling. You can look it up, but essentially she has said that she initially had a plot idea for Dean revolving around his birth father, but she had to cut it and replace it with Neville’s because it was more important for the plot.
> 
> This is essentially me taking these ideas made by J.K Rowling, switching them up a bit, and making them more relevant, because this is a Dean Thomas love account. He, and many other ‘side-characters’ in the franchise, are seriously underrated, and deserve more love.

15th August, 1991

The morning air was stifling, clinging to his skin in a thin layer of perspiration, threading its way through his short hair, clawing at his spine.

August was ever so hot — Dean wondered whether they were experiencing this global warming his sister, Hestia, kept blabbing on about over dinner. She seemed to believe this global warming would be the death of all of us, and we were living on into impending doom.

Hestia was a pessimistic soul.

In _his_ opinion, it was simply a summer heatwave.

It was the type of summer heat that makes you not want to leave the house, to leave the soothing company of the shade. Dean personally savoured the coolness of the downstairs rooms of the house, like the kitchen, or the living room. These were, unfortunately, the only two rooms in the house with good-working fans.

”Morning,” he grimaced as he stretched out his limbs, coming shuffling into the kitchen. There was only Hestia and Jolene sat at the table; their third and the eldest sister, Frankie, was nowhere to be seen.

”Good afternoon,” Hestia mused with a tone of teasing, and Dean frowned up at the clock above his head.

”Oh,” he said. It was most definitely no longer the morning. “Good afternoon, I guess.”

Hestia and Jolene Thomas were two of the most beautiful women Dean had met (the other two spots were filled by his mother and Frankie); whilst they may not hold the conventional beauty standards of the late twentieth century, Dean thought her sisters were beautiful. He had no shame in thinking that, and he held no shame when he mentioned this to them.

Dean, to his dismay, took after his birth father, people always told him. But he wanted to look like his mother.

”You slept in,” Jolene noted as she stood, scraping the chair she sat on backwards with her, so the legs scraped uneasily against the tiled floor. She balanced a now empty plate and mug on one arm as she came over to the dashboard beside the sink. She reached for the near-empty kettle and topped up her mug of coffee. “You, our sleeping beauty, missed a grand old fight.”

Immediately, Dean could feel his neutral expression drop, as a wave of guilt and disappointment washed over him, trickling through his bloodstream, spitting and frothing like an incoming tide of emotion.

”Mum and Dad, again?”

”Yup,” Hestia laughed humourlessly from the table, and Dean glanced over his shoulder warily, “Just some stuff about... about well, it doesn’t matter.”

He fought back the urge to roll his eyes, or glower, or both — he was eleven, not an utter baby, but in his sisters’ eyes at least, he was still young. _Too_ young, apparently, to be involved in family matters.

”Where’ve they gone now?” he asked, as his slice of toast ejected from the toaster with a pop.

”Mum’s upstairs,” Hestia answered, “And Frankie took Dad out for a spin.”

Frankie, being the eldest of all the Thomas siblings, was the only one able to drive. She seemed to step up to the role of calming down arguments — managing the calm after the storm, as Hestia dubbed it jokingly.

Dean buttered his toast in frustrated silence, jabbing the slightly chargrilled food with his knife.

He chewed the inside of his cheek, something he’d been told not to do by his mum.

”They’ll be fine, won’t they?” he asked after a tense silence, ad he could feel Jolene stiffen beside him. She was the youngest of the Thomas daughters, and the shortest, meaning Dean didn’t have to crane his neck up to meet her gaze the way he had to do with Frankie and Hestia, the taller siblings.

Only silence followed his question; he could hear Hestia jostling around behind them, but Jolene had gone completely rigid.

”I mean... they’re arguing an awful lot,” he continued, controlling his voice determinedly. “But, but they’ll get through... whatever this is, right?”

When he turned, Hestia’s smile did not meet her eyes.

”We hope so, Deanie.”

Pursing his lips tightly, he turned back to his toast, not bothering to hide the frown on his face. The room was flooded with ribbons of distrust, branches and twisted vines of dishonesty weaving here and there, wrapping their way around Dean’s ankles until he found himself quite unable to move, his feet rooted to the ground, as his gaze traveled to the window opposite him.

His eyes sought out the sky, as the stereo in the corner of the room crackled to life, jittering and jumping in its sound, signifying just how _ancient_ it was. Music fluttered through the speakers, as Dean heard Jolene sigh beside him and turn the tap on, scrubbing at her hands ferociously.

The sky was ever so blue. It was startling, the lack of clouds, and the piercing sapphire colour that bloomed above like a blanket. The window was open, but there was no breeze; the only breeze in the room came from a fan perched on the end of the table, whirring and humming.

And all of a sudden, Dean jolted himself back to reality, as he realised he was no longer staring at a vast canopy of blue, but a dark speck in the sky.

A dark speck that was gradually growing larger and larger.

”What is that?”

”What—”

”Jolene, move,” Dean said in alarm, as he realised the _thing_ was traveling towards them at breakneck speed, and was showing no signs of stopping. “Jo! Move!”

And she did, only just in time, as a ball of decaying fluff hurtled through the open window, skimming over the counter of the kitchen, passing Jolene as she shrieked in terror, and slamming into a bedraggled heap on the table. Whatever it was brought down the jug of orange juice with it, sending it flying across the kitchen floor, and onto Hestia’s front as she screamed.

“Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck,” Jolene repeated, wide–eyed.

Heart thudding so painfully in his chest he had to steady himself with one hand, Dean began, alarmed, “Is that... an—”

”An owl.” Hestia finished with a hiss, looking murderous.

Jolene’s voice had jumped about three octaves as she screeched, pressing a hand against her chest as she breathed heavily, ”Why is there an _owl_ in the kitchen?” When she got no answer, she repeated shrilly, “Why is there a bloody owl in the kitchen?”

”How would _we_ know?” Dean asked her incredulously, but didn’t tear her eyes away from the now stirring owl on the table.

“Just — just get that thing away — AAARGH!”

Jolene’s yell made Dean wince as he ducked, the ball of feathers suddenly taking to the air, soaring out the window with what felt like an air of slight resentment. Dean stared at the chaos left behind, and his eyes spotted a cream-coloured sheet of paper atop of the orange juice jar.

Slowly he approached it, gingerly picking it up, as though it were a bomb, and he was surprised to find it was an envelope— a thick one.

What was even more surprising to him was that the envelope was addressed to _him_ — Mr Dean Thomas — in bottle-green ink.

“Mum?” Dean called, ignoring the way Jolene’s fingers were tugging at the hem of his sleeve. “Mum?” he called louder.

His fingers seemed to have a mind of their own as they flipped the envelope over. His eyes lingered on the dark red, wax seal on the back of the cream-coloured paper, before they began to prise the letter open. He could hear bangs sounding upstairs, and a thundering of footsteps on floorboards, but his mind didn’t process the sounds, too focused on unfolding one of the two wads of paper that tumbled out the envelope.

”Dean... what’s it say?” he heard Jolene ask, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t reply.

His eyes skimmed the paper, and he could hear a pounding of blood rushing to his ears.

‘ _Mr Thomas_ ,’ the letter read, ‘ _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_ —‘

“Dean!” a voice yelped and he jumped, his eyes snapping up to see his mother stood at the foot of the staircase.

She looked awful. Her eyes were puffy and red, like she’d been crying. Now they were wide with horror as his panicked gaze mirrored her own, and she lunged forwards.

“Dean, no, don’t — don’t read that—”

”Why?” he yelped, backing away from her in panic, his heart racing, his throat dry.

“Dean Julian Thomas, hand that letter over right this instant—”

“Why?” he asked hoarsely, still backing away from her, Jolene standing slightly in front of him, no longer touching him, but with a slight edge of protectiveness as she watched her mother apprehensively. Hestia was stood now, still dripping with orange juice, but looking unusually pale. “Why, mum—” she took a step, and he backed into the wall, “—mum, you — you’re scaring me.”

At those words, her gaze dropped, and for a second she looked heartbreakingly crushed, her eyes swimming with tears that refused to fall. But then she looked up at him again, pleading.

”Please, baby, just — just give me the letter.”

”Not until you tell me why I can’t read it,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’ve already read some of it,” she paled significantly, “and it’s a load of rubbish. Some sort of prank? Maybe Frankie did it—”

There was a sharp rap on the door, and everyone in the room jumped at the harsh noise.

Dean stared at the front door for a second, before snapping back to look at his mother, who was now trembling.

”Leave it,” she whispered croakily.

There was another knock at the door, and maybe he imagined it, but it sounded less patient than before.

”I’ll get it,” Jolene mumbled, moving hesitantly away from their mother, eyeing a dripping Hestia, the mess on the table, and Dean, who was gripping the envelope to his chest, with wide eyes. He watched as his sister shuffled to the door, and opened it, only narrowly, and peeked her head round.

”Hello. Is this the Thomas household?”

The voice was a woman’s voice, rather sharp and stern.

”Er, yes,” Jolene answered hesitantly. Dean was staring at his mother, whose face had morphed into an expression of horror. He looked at Hestia momentarily, and saw her eyes being narrow slits, eyeing the letter in his hand suspiciously. He clutched it tighter.

”May I come in? I need to speak to you all.”

”I’m afraid now is not a good time—”

”It is important, Miss Thomas.”

”I’m really sorry, but today is not a good day, could you come back tomorrow?”

”It’s about the tawny owl that entered your kitchen precisely three minutes ago, and the letter your brother is now holding.”

Dean blinked. His mother now looked a sickly green, like she was about to be sick.

”What — how—" Jolene spluttered.

”May I come in? It is better to talk inside, to all of you.”

A silence followed the question, which, in Dean’s ears, didn’t sound much like a question, but more of a demand — he was scared to think what would happen if Jolene were to say no. Apparently, she had had the same track of thought, because she mumbled quietly,

”Please, come in, excuse the mess.”

As Dean predicted, the voice belonged to a woman, a head or so taller than Dean. She looked to be fifty or so, with deep-set wrinkles all over her face, and spectacles balanced on her nose. She looked ever so stern, and rather haughty as she surveyed the kitchen.

It was her choice of clothing, however, that struck Dean as odd. She was dressed in bottle-green robes, that traveled down until they lightly touched the ground. Her hair, sprinkled with grey, was drawn back, but she wore a dark green hat, like witch’s hat.

Her piercing eyes landed on him, and his skin crawled with slight discomfort.

She looked to be sizing him up, and for a second Dean wondered whether she was about to throw a punch at him, or something, like they did in the movies he’d watched. Unfortunately, he’d probably lose that fight, because even _Jolene_ could pin him down when they fought, and Jolene couldn’t hurt a fly.

But, she didn’t punch him, or even move, but just stared between him and the letter he was holding rather eerily.

”Mr Dean Thomas, is it?”

”Get away from him!” Dean’s mother shrieked, making Dean’s heart race all over again. He looked over at her, and she looked close to passing out, clutching the kitchen work surface for support, her eyes wide and crazed as she stared unblinkingly at the woman.

”Mrs Thomas, please,” the woman said, her voice slightly gentler than it had been — only slightly — as she nudged a chair back with her foot, signalling for her to sit down. “I am simply trying to help. Your son is—”

”I know my son!” Dean’s mum said shrilly, her voice still raised.

The stern-looking lady looked tired; it also looked like she was refraining from rolling her eyes, as she inhaled, and gestured to the chair.

”Mrs Thomas, please sit down.”

His mum didn’t move.

”Sit down,” the woman said sharply, any sympathy instantly gone from her voice, “Or I will just speak, and you will not be able to stop me.”

Dean watched as his mother went even paler, and slowly, she lowered herself onto the chair. He looked over, very frightened, at his sisters. Jolene seemed to be slowly edging toward him, as if at any second she may need to step between him and the snappy lady. In all honesty, he appreciated the effort but didn’t think it’d do much if anything _were_ to happen. Hestia was stood perfectly still, watching the woman with no emotions portrayed on her face, looking as serious and solemn as you could with orange juice splattered across you.

The woman looked back at Dean again, “You are Dean, correct? Mr Dean Julian Thomas?”

The title sounded too fancy for him, it made him reel back slightly, as he blinked up at the woman.

Then, he nodded.

”Good,” she said, then paused. She surveyed him through the glass of her spectacles, her gaze softening ever so slightly, as though she were pitying him. “I’m afraid there’s no easy way to say this...” from her seat at the table, Dean’s mother squeaked, and he glanced at her, seeing her resting her face in her hands. He wondered if she was crying.

The woman cleared her throat, and he looked back at her.

”Say what?” he asked hesitantly.

She stared at him a little longer, then finally spoke, “You’re a wizard, Mr Thomas.”

He swore his heart stopped pumping, just for a second. He stared up at the woman, any feeling of fright draining from his body alongside any previous courage he felt talking to the woman. He could vaguely see Hestia chuckle from out the corner of his eye, but he made no move to acknowledge it, just staring up at the woman, his eyes narrowing as he looked over her face.

”This is a sick joke,” he said finally, placing the letter down on the countertop behind him. He swallowed, “You’re off your rocker, no offence, miss.”

The lady, to his surprise, did not look annoyed at his comment, and made no move to reprimand him like he thought she would.

Instead, she looked faintly amused.

”I’m not joking, Mr Thomas,” she said, her eyes not leaving his face. “You have magic in your blood. You are a wizard.”

Hestia laughed properly now; Dean could not find it in himself to laugh along with her, his throat dry.

”This is funny to you, Miss Thomas?” the lady asked Hestia, turning her head to look at her.

”Magic isn’t real,” Hestia said simply, placing her palms on the edge of the table, and leaning forward in a slightly menacing manner. The lady didn’t react. Hestia craned an eyebrow tauntingly, as if challenging her to do, or say something; anything.

The lady said nothing. Instead, she reached inside her weird green robes, and pulled out... a twig.

Then, quicker than Dean anticipated, she waved the twig, and before his very eyes, the table began to shake.

Hestia’s hands moved scarily fast, whipping them back to her damp torso like the wooden surface had burned her. Jolene let out a quiet scream, and Dean felt her clammy hand grab onto his wrist. The items on the table... were flying. They were swirling upwards like a small tornado had occurred, but it was so silent Dean wondered whether he was hallucinating.

The spilt orange juice was flying through the air, and back into the fallen jug, which was now upright again. The table cloth was straightened out again, the old slice of toast back on the plate, the cutlery neatly back in position, and looking even cleaner than it had before the room had been disrupted by the owl.

For a moment, the room was completely silent. Then, Hestia was the first to speak.

”You...” she had backed into the wall behind her, clutching at it with her hands, her eyes wide as saucers, and it occurred to Dean this was the most frightened he had ever seen her. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, as she gasped out, “You... you’re.. you’re _crazy_...”

“I’m not crazy,” the woman repeated, frighteningly calm. “I am a witch. My name is Minerva McGonogall, and I am a professor at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I specialise in Transfiguration.”

Hestia stared at her, mouth agape. She was now so pale Dean thought _she_ may faint too.

”You’re... crazy,” she repeated, shaking her head.

It was then Dean glanced over at his mother. She looked to be in the calmest state he’d seen her all day. She was sat on the chair, her palms on her cheeks, but her mouth was shut, her eyes back to their normal ‘shape’. She was staring at Dean, and as soon as his eyes found hers, tears brimmed and her eyes went glassy.

”I’m sorry, my darling boy,” she said softly, her voice cracking as she spoke to him, her voice just loud enough to be heard over Hestia’s muttering of obscenities. “I’m so, so sorry...”

”For what?” Dean asked, his heart thumping, blood pumping through his body so loudly he was scared someone may hear. He felt light-headed. “For what, mama?”

“We thought it would be best if you didn’t know...” she whispered, like his words hadn’t registered in her brain. “Your father and I thought you’d be happier without... I’m so, so sorry, my sweet, beautiful boy...”

”Mr Thomas, you are a wizard,” the woman, McGonogall, spoke, her tone firm. “Whether you want it, or want to believe it or not, you are a wizard, and harness a great power of magic.”

”Magic...” Jolene echoed from beside Dean. Her hands hadn’t left his wrist.

Dean could barely think. His fingers found the letter again, and he reread it, the words scarring his mind as he blinked. His body felt heavy, and he wanted to cling to the childish naivety; the hope that this was all just a bad dream. But his mother’s words echoed in his mind.

”You knew?” he whispered, looking over at his mother.

Her tears finally fell. They rolled down her dark cheeks as her trembling hands scrubbed at her skin, sliding over her mouth, across her temple, across her forehead, as words seemed to fail her. But he knew the answer.

”You can’t... you can’t seriously be _believing_ this, can you?” Hestia screeched, sounding unnaturally alarmed.

When she received no response, she began to mutter again, shaking her head, “Crazy... crazy... all of you...”

Dean’s eyes found McGonogall again, but she said nothing more. He clenched his jaw, putting the letter back down on the kitchen counter, trying to make sense of the situation. Unfortunately, this didn’t work as well as he’d hoped, considering the fact none of the situation did make sense — it defied everything he’d ever thought or believed, changed the way he would view the world in years to come, then eventually forever.

All he could think, as Jolene clutched his wrist, as Hestia muttered nonsense like a madwoman, as his mother trembled and cried quietly, and as McGonogall watched him silently, was: _this was not how he planned to spend his day_.


	2. Summer, 1991: The Aftermath

It took hours for McGonogall to explain everything. By the time she’d finished explaining everything to Dean and the three other Thomases, Dean’s stepfather and Frankie had returned, and McGonogall had to explain everything all over, but in less detail.

”Blimey,” was all Frankie said, repeating it over and over, with wide eyes, never tearing her eyes away from McGonogall.

Dean’s stepfather, David, barely reacted. At first, Dean was confused, but then it dawned on him: he already knew. Then it dawned on him all over again: that was probably what his parents were arguing about in the morning, while Dean was asleep. He couldn’t help the frustration and annoyance gradually building in him, as he stared persistently down at the wooden table, his eyes tracing the lines in the wood, they way they swirled and spun.

”Mr Thomas,” McGonogall said, after all was explained, “I will get your school items delivered to you soon, and I will see you on September first.”

Then she promptly left, like she didn’t want to be there anymore — Dean didn’t blame her; he didn’t want to either. The tense silence that hung in the room was suffocating — even more so than the sweltering summer heat.

So, unable to find anything to say, Dean did the only thing he knew he was good at — he ran.

Nobody tried to stop him.

His room was hot, just as hot as when he’d left it. It was an attic room, at the very top of the house, tucked away from the regular hustle and bustle of having three half-sisters.

But now the silence blanketed him in a layer of the very same betrayal he felt downstairs, only now it felt worse, because he was alone. He couldn’t see their reactions, or figure out what they were thinking, because he’d ran off again. His room didn’t hold that same comfort it had had in his imagination moments before. As he looked around, his eyes falling on his poster-littered walls, Dean wondered now, if _everything_ had truly changed.

He had his favourite football players on the wall; he had his sketchbooks and his treasured pair of paint-splattered dungarees draped over his desk chair, but still... things felt different.

 _He_ felt different. And he hated it — he preferred the old him, and he thought that his family probably did too.

He didn’t leave his room the rest of the day.

At one point, Jolene knocked on his door politely, asking if he wanted to talk, and he (not so politely) told her no, and told her to go away (but perhaps with ruder language he didn’t dare repeat around his mother). It was unlike him, lashing out at people, but in the heat of the moment, the confusion still pooling in his stomach, the frustration and anger at his parents keeping everything from him for so long, and the secret horror of what he could potentially do, it was all too much.

At one point he tried to draw, something which had always calmed him, and momentarily it did, until his mum knocked on his door, and he told her to go away.

It was childish, he knew, running away to his room, hiding from his family and his problems, but it was all he knew how to do. So he stayed there until evening, when he scurried down for food, met only Jolene’s worried gaze, then scurried back upstairs.

Tiredness eventually claimed him at what he guessed was around midnight, and the calmness of the unconscious tugged at him, clasping him tightly. He hoped it was all a bad dream, but deep down he scorned himself for wishing such silly ideas. He felt far older than eleven in that moment; far wiser, as he drifted away to dreamland.

***

16th August 1991

The house was calm when Dean woke. It felt surreal, when his eyes dragged themselves open, and his room appeared fuzzy, like looking through a dusty camera lense. Then it all came crashing down on him, like a tidal wave of icy cold water, and he fought back the urge to just go back to sleep.

 _This was not the way he was going to spend his summer_ , Dean thought firmly to himself.

In a sudden boost of newly found confidence, Dean drew himself up, held his chin high, and walked down the two flights of narrow, rickety stairs towards the kitchen. He felt his confidence quickly dissipate, however, as he heard voices — like it was a slap to the face; he clearly was not ready to face people. _Why_ was an utter mystery to him.

”Hey, look who’s decided to show up!” called a teasing voice, and Dean cursed himself for stopping on a point of the staircase that was visible to all other points on the bottom floor.

 _Curse him, curse him, curse him_.

“Frankie, shuddup,” came Jolene’s ever so kind voice, as Dean walked down the couple last steps, and turned into the kitchen.

Dean was silently relieved to see just his three sisters sat at the kitchen table. Frankie looked just as disgustingly upbeat and energetic as usual, adorning a large leather jacket despite the overwhelming heat, that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and alcohol. Jolene was sat across from her, looking rather jumpy, like she expected another owl to come soaring through the window. Hestia kept her head down, not acknowledging Dean’s presence as she chewed ferociously on her mouthful of cereal.

”What?” Frankie exclaimed in mock-offence, but wearing a wide grin as her eyes fell upon Dean. “Just trynna lighten the mood — don’t wanna make the mystical _wizard_ mad... he’ll prolly curse me or somethin’—”

“Oh, will you stop being so insensitive,” Jolene narrowed her eyes at her sister like a predator, as she rose to her feet and began buttering a slice of toast at rapid speed. “G’morning, Dean, fancy a slice of toast?”

”Er, yes please,” he said quietly, as he slipped into a seat at the end of the table, feeling unusually nervous and jittery.

He hated it — well, he hated the whole situation.

”So?” Frankie spoke slowly, raising her thin eyebrows at Dean expectantly. He blinked at her. She didn’t move. “So, how was your first night as an official _wizard?_ ”

Jolene called in exasperation, “Frankie! Come on, man!”

”It was fine,” Dean said slowly, avoiding eye contact at all costs, despite a voice at the back of his mind screaming at him to just be normal — why was he being so damn weird about it? The curls of anxiety looming in his stomach were one thing, but the inability to look his family members in the eye, that was a whole other.

But still, Frankie continued on, unperturbed, wearing a teasing grin as she slurped coffee and watched him over the rim of her cup.

”Oh, so you don’t talk to us now, do you?” she asked daringly.

Before Dean could respond, the sound of a chair scraping against the floor made everyone look up. Hestia walked coolly round the table, avoiding eye contact as she left the room in perfectly composed silence.

”Hetty—” Jolene tried, but the girl was long gone, her footsteps echoing up the staircase.

Dean slowly lowered his forehead onto the table, letting out a long sigh.

He heard the light, carefree sound of Jackie laughing, before feeling a hand on his shoulder, tugging him upright again. Jolene placed a plate of toast in front of him, and he stared at it miserably, feeling very sorry for himself as the slamming of a door upstairs reverberated through the house. A moment later, a mug of steaming tea was placed in front of him too, and he crinkled his nose in slight disapproval, as Jolene took a seat at the head of the table, between Dean and Frankie.

She raised her eyebrows expectantly, “Well, eat up then. I didn’t make you that for nothing.”

“Ignore Hestia,” Frankie said in her usual light manner, as Dean chewed on his toast, savouring the warmth of the melted butter. “She’s being — well, she’s being Hestia. She’ll get over it.”

”Will she?” Dean swallowed, raising his eyebrows. “What if she never does?”

”There you go—” Frankie wagged a finger in his face and he swatted it away indignantly, “—that’s her pessimism talking there. She rubs off on you; around you too much—”

”Yeah, well you’re off doing god knows what in your stupid fancy car,” Dean said bitterly, annoyance rising in his throat. It was sour and red hot on the tip of his tongue. As soon as he said it he regretted it; it came out spiteful and scornful, not the way he’d intended it, but Jackie didn’t look offended. Rather, she looked like she had been expecting it, and smiled softly at him, perhaps the most meaningful smile he’d seen her wear.

”Come on, eat up,” Frankie said, gesturing to the toast, and Dean took another large bite. “I’m taking you out after you’ve eaten.”

”Out?” Dean repeated, and Jolene let out a noise of discontent, as his mouth still had food in.

He swallowed, as Frankie nodded mysteriously, a smirk playing on her lips. Dean glanced over at Jolene, who was watching the exchange with a hint of disapproval.

”Just us,” Frankie added. “In the car. Won’t say more’n that.”

Feeling slightly more invigorated and his curiosity getting the better of him, Dean made his way through his toast, even taking a couple swigs of tea before nudging it away from him with a look of disgust.

Frankie chuckled as she got to her feet, adjusting her jacket slightly on her shoulders and beckoning Dean to follow her. She retreated out the kitchen, pressing a kiss to Jolene’s head, as Dean followed, waving a goodbye. They emerged out into the sun, the air so hot Dean thought he’d melt, even though he was in a tank top and shorts — the least amount of clothes he could be seen in without people judging him.

Jackie took him out to the side of the house, where she stowed her precious car — Dean had no idea what model or make it was, but in his eyes, it was one of the coolest cars he’d seen.

His sister clearly thought similarly.

Her ‘pride and joy’ he’d heard her call it once or twice.

”Alright, hop in,” she said, as she slid into the driver’s seat, starting the car engine with a steady rumble, the way he’d seen her do it so many times before.

When the car began to pull out of the drive way, Dean turned the window by his seat all the way down. Frankie followed in suit, and a moment later, the car radio flickered to life, and the two sat in silence, as a radio station out there, somewhere, began to play music. It was melodic and flowing, and Dean could feel his mind drifting elsewhere as the car meandered down twisting roads, leaving the concrete jungle of the nearby town, and they gradually began to travel into the countryside, down narrow country lanes and relishing in the shade of overhanging trees.

”Where are we going?” Dean asked Frankie quietly, and she nearly jumped at his voice; like him, her mind had clearly been elsewhere.

”It’s a surprise, brother dearest. We’re gonna go meet someone, then just... hang out for a bit somewhere.”

”We’re meeting someone?” Dean asked, his throat rather dry. He stared at his sister in slight alarm, as if trying to decipher her emotions.

”Yeah. You’ll like ‘em, though, promise.”

He leaned back into his seat, suddenly rather aware he was still in the clothes he’d slept in, and he assumed his general appearance was less than admirable. Frankie beside him, seemed remarkably tense. It struck him as most unusual, for Frankie was probably the most frighteningly relaxed person he knew. And it didn’t help that it was only the two of them, and a small nagging at the back if his mind that told him _he_ was the problem — _he_ had made her nervous.

”Alright,” Frankie hummed, as she leaned forwards slightly, peering through the windowscreen to the lane in front of them. “We’re just about there. By the way,” her eyes hovered on him, and the hints of a sympathetic smile curled on her lips. “They... the person we’re meeting doesn’t know about your superpower thing...”

”Ok,” was all Dean could find in himself to say, as he balled up his fist, clutching the fabric of his shorts, as Frankie nodded and turned back to the road.

The car slowly began to slow, and Dean spotted a small wooden sign that stuck out from the rows of wild bushes bordering the track.

’ _Bloomsbury Cottage_ ’ the sign read, like something out of a fairytale.

And, with slight recklessness, Frankie spun the wheel, and the car careened up the driveway. It was a pretty house, as Dean thought at first, like something out of a fairy tale. It was a short bungalow, the walls a creamy yellow colour, with all sorts of greenery and foliage entangling themselves upon the walls. The roof was thatched, a chimney sticking out.

”Where on _earth_ are we?” Dean whispered, mainly to himself, as he stared in silent awe at the house.

Frankie snorted in amusement as the car screeched to a halt, and she switched off the car engine.

“Come on.”

Dean followed close behind her as they made their way up the driveway towards the building, a recurring sense of trepidation falling on his shoulders, weighing him down.

”Frankie, who are we—”

”Wait here.”

”What — Frankie!”

But his sister had held him back with a palm landing on his chest, and he halted, nerves piling in his stomach. He watched as Frankie walked on to the house, and knocked on the door.

He craned his neck as the light green front door swung open, and—

A girl of around Frankie’s age opened up the door, a bright smile blossoming on her cheeks as she saw it was Frankie standing on her doorstep. She was pretty, with dainty but sharp features that made her look like an elf, or a fairy. Her hair was platinum blond, her eyes dark from where Dean could see.

The two girls hugged each other tightly, and Dean could see them chuckling. Then, Frankie pulled her closer to her, and Dean could see her saying something. While he couldn’t, of course, hear what she was saying, he had a good idea that he was brought up, because the blonde girl’s head lifted and he lightly surprised gaze fell on him.

Instantly, he looked down at his feet, avoiding her gaze.

It took another minute or so of them chatting, the blonde disappearing from view for a moment, and yet more laughing, until the two walked over.

As they approached, the blonde gave him a kind smile.

”Hello,” she said gently, like she was afraid if she spoke too loudly or harshly she mag break him. “I’m Melinda, but you can call me Mel. Nice to meet you, Dean.”

“Er, nice to meet you too,” Dean said, sending her a smile he hoped was kind, after remembering his manners. _She doesn’t know_ , he reminded himself. _She doesn’t know anything about what’s happened, be normal_. 

There was a short pause, then Frankie spoke with a grin, as she rocked on the balls of her feet.

”We’re gonna go to a special place,” she said, and Dean narrowed his eyes in slight suspicion at her. “It’s a good surprise, shorty, don’t look at me like that.”

Mel smiled in amusement, as Dean bristled at the dig to his height.

And so they began to walk, leaving the cottage behind. Dean was wedged between them due to Frankie’s persistence, and he was feeling only slightly claustrophobic but still very confused. He had no idea who this Mel was, or where they were going, but all he knew was that it was too hot, and he wanted to be back inside.

”Here,” Frankie said after five or so minutes of walking down another twisting country lane, Dean silent, listening to Frankie and Mel chuckle and chat on his sides. “Dean, welcome to heaven on Earth.”

They turned down a small gap in the hedge lining the track of road, and Dean’s eyes widened.

It was a lake. Or, at least, a body of water, but he wasn’t sure if it qualified as a lake or not. The water was a rather startling blue, and stretched out far, but it looked shallow, so shallow in fact that Dean could just about spy the bottom of the body of water; rifts of sand and mud. The banks were shadowed by overhanging trees, and in the very centre of the water was a round patch of land — an island, with a drooping willow tree casting dancing shadows across the water and grass.

”What the bloody hell?” Dean mumbled, taking it all in in silent awe.

”Oi, just ‘cause mum and dad aren’t here doesn’t mean you can get away with cursing,” Frankie grinned.

”Right, right, sorry.”

But Dean wasn’t paying much attention to his sister or her friend for that matter, instead gazing around still. A flock of birds cawed and whistled as they flew over, reflected in the glassy surface of the gently rippling water.

”That was my reaction too,” Frankie said with a laugh, and she began walking again, coming to a stop on a patch of grass shadowed hazily by a tree. “I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

”So _this_ is where you’ve been all summer?” Dean asked his sister, feeling a bitter taste of jealousy on his tongue.

She looked at him sheepishly.

”Well, kinda. Here some days, anyway, other times in town...”

“T’was my idea anyway,” Mel said with a sorry smile to Dean, as Frankie sat down onto the grass, cross-legged, and Mel followed suit. “This land here used to be owned by my grandpa, until he passed five or so years ago... I’m pretty sure it’s owned by the council or something now, but nobody really comes down here.”

Dean stared at her.

”Sorry for stealing your sister,” Mel tilted her head with a sheepish grin sent over at Frankie, who gazed at her for a moment, before smiling back.

”Well I can see why you like it here,” Dean said finally, deciding it was actually too hot to still be standing, so he too sat down, stretching out his thin legs in front of him, trying to get comfortable. “It’s... pretty cool.”

He frowned at Frankie, “Does anyone else know you come here?”

”Dad does,” she shrugged, “But he hasn’t come before, says he doesn’t want to. Probably too hot, anyway. You know he gets grumpy when it’s hot.”

Dean did know this. Last summer when the family went to Greece for a holiday, their dad got heatstroke, then refused to leave the house they rented for several days. It was _not_ a fond memory.

”You know,” Mel said slowly, glancing over at Dean with a smirk that took him aback because of how similar it looked to one of Frankie’s. “You can go in the water, you know. If you want to.”

He grinned.

It was safe to say all three of them were drenched head to toe by the time they left. But Dean didn’t mind, he was wearing a smile all the way home, and he slept well, the coils of anxiety round his stomach unfurling slightly.


End file.
